so white it's turned blue:
the birch grove
above the snow
the light before dawn
the winter lake
ringed in slush
that has not yet iced through.

fish amble
their clocks turned down.
they think of red bugs
but the thought takes days
to shape
and when it comes at last
it seems like a memory.

there are creaks: peeper frogs
their damp noises
muffled by snowskin
wet air
blotted feathers.

robert's sleeping.
he's nude in the linens
especially pale.
the smell of him sleeping
fills me with hopes
of sap and resin.

I lick the skin on his
collar bone
breathe in the wood-smell
of him
and
at least in memory
I make him pour on my tongue
his mind shaping
like the image of a leaf
in ice.
he rises in pulses
toward waking.